


Cold Case

by codswallop



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-06
Updated: 2011-11-06
Packaged: 2017-10-25 18:35:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/273468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/codswallop/pseuds/codswallop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a request for Sherlock sickfic on the kinkmeme. Sherlock is a pain in the arse to look after, and Lestrade rues the day he met him. OR DOES HE?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Case

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Thesmallhobbit, Garryowen, and Ariadnes_string for their beta help on this thing.

“Sherlock!” Lestrade pounded harder on the flimsy door of the Kilburn flat. “I know you’re there, you bastard.” He didn’t know any such thing, in fact, not for sure, but it was the most likely place. “I’ve got a case,” he tried. “Need your help. Come on, Sherlock, it’s bloody freezing in this corridor!”

It was freezing inside the flat, too, when he finally tracked down the landlord and talked him into giving him the key. Freezing and filthy. Lestrade was more or less used to the appalling state of the ratholes that Holmes called home, but the cold was worrying. “Sherlock?” Lestrade called again as he entered the room, and the word made a visible puff of frozen air.

There was no answer, but a ragged heap of blankets on the mattress in the bedroom stirred slightly at the sound of his footsteps. “There you are,” Lestrade sighed, and nudged the heap with his boot. “Not dead yet, then?”

Still no reply, and Lestrade blew out another irritated puff and squatted down on his heels to investigate. He prodded at the pile of blankets, searching for a shoulder to shake. “Sherlock,” he said again. “Are you on something? If you’re overdosing I need to get you to hospital. Hey!” he called, and snapped his fingers a few times. Waking up reluctant junkies was something he was used to, but with Sherlock it gave him a terrible knot of a feeling. He didn’t care to analyse it. It made him cross.

“Go away,” the body in the blankets murmured. “Clean. No drugs. Leave me alone.”

Lestrade managed to peel away some of the layers of down and wool, wrinkling his nose at the smell of unwashed skin. Least he wasn’t lying in a puddle of puke. “What are you playing at, then?” he demanded. “It’s like an icebox in here!”

“Sleeping,” Sherlock said, snatching the filthy duvet back and huddling up again so that nothing could be seen of him but a thatch of dark, tangled hair.

“It’s six in the evening,” Lestrade protested. “Are you ill? How long has the heat been turned off?”

Sherlock refused to respond, and Lestrade stood there and waited, tucking his hands into his armpits for warmth. “Well,” he said at last. “I’m going to make tea.” He retreated to the kitchen, dug around grimly for a while until he found the kettle, and turned on the tap. No result. “The water’s off, too?” he shouted, and stormed back into the bedroom. “Sherlock!”

The human-shaped heap on the mattress looked still more tightly cocooned and determined to remain inert, but it was shaking with cold, Lestrade noticed, and there was a faint chattering noise coming from within. “Right. You’re coming back to mine. Shower and sort yourself out. No arguments. Up.”

“Fuck off,” Sherlock suggested, listlessly.

“Or I could ring that brother of yours. He did make very sure I had his number, just in case.”

There was another fifteen seconds of sullen silence before Sherlock bit out an icy “Oh, _fine,_ then,” and emerged.

*****

“What’s the case?” Sherlock rasped, when they were in the cab on their way across town.

“I’m sorry?”

“The case, when you broke into my flat just now, you said there was a case you needed my help with.”

“Oh,” said Lestrade. “No case. I made that up.”

“I hate you,” Sherlock said, pulling his coat collar closed and shutting his eyes again.

“Likewise,” said Lestrade. “Don’t fall asleep again yet. We’re nearly there.”

*****

Sherlock, who had been in Lestrade’s flat twice before, disappeared immediately into the master bath, locked the door behind him, and proceeded to use up all the hot water. He then helped himself to Lestrade’s favourite soft-flannel pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt without asking and reemerged into the kitchen, damp-haired and demanding tea.

“It’s gone cold,” Lestrade said, passing him a mug. “You were in there forever and a day. Made you a sandwich, too, if you want.”

Sherlock shuddered and went visibly paler.

“You _are_ on something,” Lestrade accused him, and flipped the kitchen light on high to glare at him, but Sherlock’s eyes weren’t dilated, merely glassy. Perhaps a bit less sharply focused than usual.

“Not just lately,” he said, proffering the undersides of his wrists for inspection.

“Ill, then.” Lestrade narrowed his eyes at him. Sherlock was still shivering steadily, even though his skin was pinkish from the heat of the shower. “What do you need? There’s paracetamol in the--”

“Found it, yes. Just need sleep, I should think. Those condoms on the top shelf of your medicine cabinet are past their expiration date, by the way, just so you know. Though it hasn’t been a concern of yours lately. Good night,” Sherlock said, and disappeared down the hall into the bedroom again, shutting the door behind him with finality.

“I was going to offer you the _sofa!_ ” Lestrade shouted after him. “And stay out of my stuff!”

*****

At least it was a comfortable sofa, even if Lestrade hated the thought of germs and chemical residue and _Sherlockness_ all over his sheets and pillows. He’d have to disinfect the lot, he decided, as he fetched the spare bedding from the hall cupboard.

He woke to the sound of shouts and explosions at two in the morning, and it took him a few disoriented minutes to work out that it wasn’t Sherlock wreaking some kind of ungodly havoc on his flat--only that he’d fallen asleep with the television on. Lestrade fumbled for the remote and clicked it off, then sighed and groped his way down the hall to the bedroom to see what was going on in there, just in case.

Sherlock wasn’t there.

Lestrade stood in the doorway blinking at the empty, rumpled bed for a bit, then had the presence of mind to check the toilet. Empty. He went back down the hall and sat heavily down on the sofa again, reaching for his mobile.

 _Nice of you to stick around to say thanks,_ Lestrade typed, and hit Send.

The sound of the New Message chime came almost instantly, but it was oddly faint and far away. Lestrade looked down, frowning. It hadn't come from his phone.

 _Where are you?_ he fired off, and heard the muffled chime again. “Sherlock!” he shouted, but there was no response. Surely he hadn’t left his mobile behind in the flat?

It took Lestrade an embarrassingly long time, and a number of experimental messages, to find the source.

 _Fuck._ (must be maddeningly near)

 _Off._ (not in the kitchen)

 _You._ (no, not back toward the bedroom, he couldn’t hear it at all)

 _Utter._ (warmer, warmer)

 _Tit_ , he typed, and finally thought to open the front door of the flat and check the corridor.

“Oh, come _on_ ,” Lestrade groaned, when he saw the crumpled, black-coated form on the top step. “Get up, get back in here. Knew I should have called your brother.”

“Not the brother,” Sherlock said, lifting his head and focusing on Lestrade with apparent difficulty. “I told you. Couldn’t have been him. Check the stepfather’s hair dye.”

“Sherlock, you helped me close that case months ago, you--oh, Christ, you’re burning up. You know, if you’d have at least made it just out the front door before pitching over you’d have been picked up for vagrancy and you’d be off my hands, but no. All right, change of plans: you wait here while I get my trousers and shoes. We’re going to hospital after all.”

*****

Sherlock didn’t try to argue with Lestrade about being hauled in for medical treatment, so Lestrade knew he was even worse off than he’d thought. Sherlock, in fact, seemed to have no idea where he was. This admittedly made the whole process easier, but it was also a bit alarming. “Eels,” Sherlock murmured to the ceiling of the A&E reception area, having stretched out across several empty chairs while Lestrade tried to fill out his intake forms. “Definitely eels. No less than five dozen,” and later on, very irritably, “Don’t be absurd, he could never have swallowed all of that at one go.”

“All of what?” Lestrade said absently, still struggling with paperwork. “The five dozen eels? I should hope not.”

“Lestrade?” Sherlock sat up and looked around in confusion. “This isn’t your flat. It’s much too loud. Crime scene? One of yours?”

“Not exactly,” said Lestrade. “Go to sleep, why don’t you? We may be here for a while.” Hours, most likely, since Sherlock wasn’t pouring blood--and even if he had been, it might only have moved them up one or two places in the queue, Lestrade thought, glancing at the chaos that surrounded them.

“Much too loud and much too cold,” Sherlock complained, and lay back down across the chairs, this time burrowing his head into Lestrade’s lap.

Lestrade blinked a few times, then gave in to instinct and pushed a hand through Sherlock’s hair, petting him awkwardly. “Hey,” he said. “All right. You’ll be all right. Look, who’s your next of kin?”

Sherlock shook his head, hot against Lestrade’s thigh, and made a negative sort of noise.

“Right, what’s-his-name. I won’t phone him, but I’ve got to put something down here.” Lestrade printed an _M,_ then hesitated.

“With a Y.” The familiar, oily voice was startlingly close to his left ear. “M-y-c. I’m surprised you’ve forgotten, Detective Sergeant; it hasn’t been that long, has it?”

"About a year, I suppose," Lestrade said.

"Yes, I see you've grown rather...attached," Mycroft purred, looking down at Sherlock pointedly. "That's very sweet. I'll take it from here, however. My gratitude to you for staying on top of the situation." He held out his hand for the clipboard Lestrade was working on.

Sherlock didn't move, although Lestrade had felt him go tense at the sound of his brother's voice. Lestrade looked down at him, too: milk and ink and blue-veined temples, the bones in his face more prominent than ever, his long thin frame thrumming with chills.

"All right," Lestrade said, and eased Sherlock's head off his lap, handing the paperwork to Mycroft as he got to his feet. Sherlock made a small sound of protest, he thought, but he could have been imagining it. Anyway there was clearly no use in arguing with someone who apparently kept CCTV feeds in his pocket. You ought to feel relieved to be let off, Lestrade told himself crossly. “Phone me and let me know how he does,” he said, yanking off his scarf and folding it and then tucking it under Sherlock’s head.

“Mm,” Mycroft hummed politely, taking the seat opposite his brother’s and flipping through papers. Lestrade had plainly been dismissed.

He made inquiries through police channels the next morning and was informed that Sherlock Holmes had been neither admitted to nor treated at the hospital where he’d left him. Nor at any of the other major metropolitan hospitals. Sherlock wasn’t answering phone calls or texts, and when Lestrade went by the Kilburn flat again, it was not only deserted but swept clean of Sherlock’s belongings.

The following day, Lestrade’s scarf was returned to him in the post with a note:

 _S. is convalescing abroad and sends regards. No need to continue your line of inquiries. Your concern is noted and appreciated, but unnecessary. I’m sure he’ll be in touch. --MH_

*****

Lestrade didn’t hear anything else from or about Sherlock for another week, and then he came home one evening to find him stretched out on his sofa. “Picked your locks,” Sherlock said without opening his eyes, when he came in. “Ridiculously easy. I’d be more concerned about security if I were you.”

“Thought you were ‘convalescing abroad,’” Lestrade said. “What happened? Abroad not sufficiently amusing for you?”

“I escaped.” Sherlock steepled his long thin fingers beneath his chin. “Are you ordering takeaway? You’ve got nothing in your kitchen. Hot and sour soup would be good, I think.”

Lestrade wasn’t sure whether to ignore him, humour him, or pick him up by the scruff of the neck and put him out on the landing. “I’ll order you something if you’ll tell me what the hell you’re doing in my flat,” he said finally. “Are you over being ill? You don’t look it.”

“Nearly,” Sherlock said. “I’ve got several places I could stay, naturally, but they’re all a bit rough. This seems the best option. You’ve been feeling guilty about abandoning me to my brother’s mercies, and I’m often useful to you, so you’ll let me sleep here for a few nights.”

“Why not let your brother look after you?” Lestrade demanded. “He seemed very keen.”

“He’s intolerable. He wants me to _work for him._ ”

“Doing what?”

“Things,” Sherlock said darkly. “Government things.” He broke into a fit of wretched, wet coughs which couldn’t have been entirely feigned, Lestrade decided, even if their timing was a bit suspicious.

“Christ, it’s not anything catching, is it?” Lestrade asked, when the coughing went on and on.

“Bronchial pneumonia,” Sherlock gasped out, collapsing back onto the sofa, his eyes streaming. “Non-contagious. Soup? And perhaps tea?”

“The bedroom is mine,” Lestrade warned him, and went to put the kettle on.

*****

Lestrade wasn’t entirely surprised to wake at some point during the night and find his bed being invaded. “Your feet are freezing,” he murmured, and pulled Sherlock close against his chest.

Sherlock _hmmm_ ed and moved Lestrade’s hand up under his shirt. “Warm,” he said approvingly, and Lestrade sighed, giving in, as he’d always known he would. “I brought new condoms,” Sherlock added.

“You’re not too ill to use them?”

“Go slow,” Sherlock suggested, mouth on his neck, shivering against him.

*****

Sherlock stayed in Lestrade’s bed for the next three days, more or less: recovering, sleeping, doing things to Lestrade that made them both damp and hot and achy. It felt a bit wrong, Lestrade thought, running his hands over Sherlock’s too-prominent ribs, pressing an ear to his back and hearing the wet, rattling breaths trapped inside--but it was only a temporary thing, surely. Why me? he wondered. Why now?

“Because you like looking after me,” Sherlock said, drowsily reading his mind, and Lestrade wanted to argue the point, but it seemed as though it might be partially true.

“Because you like being looked after,” he countered. “And because your brother disapproves of me.”

Sherlock’s eyes went dark and his back arched slightly. “Oh, _yes,_ ” he groaned, as if Lestrade were talking dirty to him. “You’re entirely unsuitable for me to associate with. Why are you all the way over there? Come here.” He broke into another fit of coughing as he reached for Lestrade, though, which ruined the effect somewhat.

“How can someone as brilliant as you fail to take care of yourself in the most basic of ways?” Lestrade complained, waiting for Sherlock to get his breath back. “You need constant supervision and a live-in personal physician, is what you need.”

“You,” Sherlock said dizzily. “You’ll do. Just you.”


End file.
